


everyone a rager (but secretly they're saviors)

by above_the_fold



Series: glory and gore [1]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Benji Dunn Is A Mess, But I personally don't ship it, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethan Hunt Is A Little Shit, Ethan/Ilsa if you want, Friendship, Gen, Ilsa Faust is a Queen, Late Night Conversations, Lots of tears, Luther Stickell Is Team Dad, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Post-M:I Fallout, Sharing a Bed, Team as Family, Tears, They've got that older brother/younger sister vibe, change my mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:02:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/above_the_fold/pseuds/above_the_fold
Summary: The only sound he hears is the rasping of his breath, concealed by the mask as he’s lowered back down. He’s so tired of masks. Of always ending up here.-Or, the fallout of The Fallout.Fic and series titles from "Glory and Gore" by Lorde.
Relationships: Benji Dunn & Ethan Hunt, Benji Dunn & Ilsa Faust, Benji Dunn & Luther Stickell, Ethan Hunt & Everyone, Ethan Hunt & Luther Stickell, Ilsa Faust & Luther Stickell, Ilsa Faust/Ethan Hunt, Julia Meade & Everyone
Series: glory and gore [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024678
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	1. One

_ If you care about him, you should walk away. _

She does—Ilsa Faust cares so much about Ethan Hunt and this team that it almost scares her. So much that she followed them to the end of the world even after Luther warned her away; so much that she’s standing here with Benji, who finally looks at her with something like trust in his eyes as the countdown reaches its final seconds. She could never have walked away. Not from any of it. 

“We’re out of time. We just have to hope he has it.”

She tries desperately to feel reassured by Luther’s conviction—he’s done nothing but believe in Ethan this entire mission. Benji, on the other hand, looks terrified. “Okay, we’re ready.”

Terrified and not at all ready, Ilsa silently amends. They share a desperate look, devoid of any enmity for once. They have less than a minute.

Luther instructs, “At two seconds, we cut—”

“Wait, wait! Why two? Why not one?” Benji yells, and Ilsa’s mouth drops open. How can they debate this  _ now _ ?

“You wanna cut it  _ that  _ close?” Luther sounds as incredulous as she feels, but she can tell that he’s ready to argue, and they don’t have  _ time  _ for this.

“Well it’s a second we’ll never get back…!”

00:00:07. The steely calm she’d started with has evaporated; fear and frustration sharpen her voice. “Can we make a decision on this!”

“Alright, alright, we’ll do it on one!”

“Counting on one?”

“Yes, one! Alright, stand by.”

Their eyes meet again. Benji is fighting a losing battle with himself, tears dripping down his chin as they wait for Luther’s countdown to begin. Ilsa feels as though she ought to say something, but—really, what  _ can  _ she say? It’s too late to be sorry and she has nothing to thank him for, except… 

The fact that she will not die alone, and for that she  _ is _ thankful. She should tell him so; tell Luther she’s sorry; tell Ethan she—

“Three,” Luther says, determined. Tears spring to her eyes suddenly as she thinks of him alone out there—they heard him send Julia away.

“Two,” Benji joins him, and it sounds like an apology. Lane wheezes triumphantly from the floor and Ilsa wishes he was close enough to kick. She will not die with him in her head. No. 

But she can’t look at Benji, and she won’t give Lane the satisfaction of seeing how scared she is, so she closes her eyes instead. She can feel Benji’s hands shaking as he positions the wire cutters. She always admired that about him—he never bothered with hiding his emotion. He was more real than any of them.

“One—NOW!”

She hears Benji gasp, the  _ snick  _ of the wire cutters—

-

When she opens her eyes, Benji is still there.

_ She’s  _ still there.

The plutonium core drops into Benji’s outstretched hand. Both their gazes stray toward Lane, whose impassive expression has cracked. He turns his face into the floor, snarling. 

“Okay,” Ilsa breathes, eyeing the bomb’s remnants with wide, tearful eyes. 

“Okay,” Benji replies, quite unsteadily. “Okay.”

-

They race back into the medical camp, hauling Lane between them. Ilsa’s not sure who managed to alert the authorities, but a swarm of JKP officers meets them at the entrance, confused and shouting, and it does nothing for her aching head.

Since neither she nor Benji can speak Urdu, they simply shove Lane forward and nod.  _ This is who you want. _

The shitty rope they’d bound him with is replaced with steel cuffs. He still looks vaguely unaware as they load him in the back of an armored vehicle (none too gently, to their satisfaction.) Ilsa trembles slightly as his sightless gaze falls on her, but she isn’t afraid. She’s disgusted, enraged—but she no longer fears Solomon Lane.

She won’t dare to believe it’s over, though. Not just yet.

She scans the crowd for Ethan, undoubtedly somewhere in the shadows, hiding his wounds with that stupid lopsided grin on his face. She has so much to say to him, as she expects they all will—Benji is looking around, eyes bright with tears again, but Ethan is nowhere in sight.

Suddenly Luther is there, forcing his way through the crowd and grabbing them both in a tight hug.

Benji’s face crumples as he fists a hand in the older man’s coat. Ilsa lets a shuddering breath escape her. She doesn’t quite know why she herself is still crying, but Benji is a mess, so she figures it’s all right, and slowly they all calm down in each other’s arms.

Luther’s heart pounds steadily but much too quickly beneath her. She’s the first to pull away, as she suspects Ethan would be, judging by the knowing look on his face. She tugs at the hem of her coat, eyes pointedly lowered as Benji collects himself. He looks as shitty as she feels.

“You two okay?” Luther asks, keeping a bracing hand on Benji’s shoulder as he looks them over. Ilsa is too tired to mind her filthy appearance. The blood on her hands isn’t hers—she wonders tiredly if that’s supposed to be some kind of metaphor. It’s Lane’s, from where she drove that shard of glass in just behind his knee.

Should’ve gone for his throat, instead. 

She’s battered and bruised and fairly certain of some splinters in rather unmentionable places where Lane dragged her through the wall, but she nods anyway, watching over Luther’s broad shoulder as the truck pulls away. She doesn’t know where they’re taking Lane and right now, she can’t find the energy to care.

A warm hand on her arm draws her back. Luther jerks his head toward the nearest tent. “You should go get checked out. Then we’ll find Ethan.”

Ilsa shakes her head, shrugs away. She hates how much of a mind reader the older agent is. “I’m going to look for him,” she protests, voice weak in her own ears, and almost breaks as Benji turns a pleading gaze on her. 

He's starting to weave on his feet as Luther helps him toward the medical tent. As she moves reluctantly to follow, the sound of a chopper descending from the mountains has them all turning back— _ now  _ what?

A team of people in white rushes past as the helicopter lands, Julia among them. A sharply-dressed woman exits first, flanked by two American soldiers, and then they’re pulling a still figure down onto a stretcher, barking orders at one another.

The woman is heading across the grass toward them, but they all look past her; a terrible look crosses Luther’s face just as Ilsa herself realizes— 

“Oh my—”

“ETHAN!”


	2. Two

Ethan comes to with bright lights in his face.

He screws his eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath and gasping at the pain that rips through him. He’s moving—being moved, flat on his aching back, and there’s people everywhere, running and shouting.

He forces his eyes open again, gaze desperately searching for his team among them. 

Ilsa is to his right, smirking tremulously as she nods at him. He wants to reach for her hand like he had in Paris, but he can feel the pressure of an IV in his wrist. She looks so tired and even as she smiles down at him, he can tell she’s cried—beautiful still.

To his left, Benji’s mouthing something, smiling and crying all at once as he follows them at a run. A livid bruise is visible just above his collarbone where his jacket is unbuttoned; Ethan can just make out a line of angry red welts, an evenly-spaced pattern curling around his throat, and wonders what the  _ fuck  _ happened as he tries to smile back, his own tears blinding him instead. 

And when he opens his eyes again Luther is at his side, waving someone over—and that breaks him.

Ethan finally weeps at the sight of his best friend, looking so old and careworn and helpless as the nurses push past into his limited line of sight. Cool hands are on him then, helping him up into a sitting position as he  _ sobs,  _ good hand scrabbling blindly for someone to hold onto.

A monitor beeps somewhere beside him, shrill and insistent, and someone is fitting an oxygen mask to his face as he gasps. A familiar voice, gentle yet strained, orders him to lie back. 

The only sound he hears is the rasping of his breath, concealed by the mask as he’s lowered back down. He’s so  _ tired _ of masks. Of always ending up here.

His mouth is full of salt. The monitor beeps frantically as he gasps again, and everything dims. 

Someone is holding his hand and talking—

-

Ilsa waits for the nurse to exit the tent before slipping inside. Technically no one said anything about visitors one way or the other, but she still feels like an outsider somehow—Benji probably won’t even want to see her.

She hesitates, fingers clenched around the still-warm mug of tea she’s attempting to sneak him from the mess hall, and listens to his ugly, hacking (and probably mildly exaggerated) cough from inside. Ethan is still unconscious in a tent across camp, and poor Luther is stuck in a makeshift debriefing room with Erika Sloane. Julia is on-call with some remaining smallpox patients currently, and she is the only other person who would have a reason to visit Benji—

Ilsa ducks inside. 

“I misjudged you,” Benji rasps from the bed when he sees her, and she nearly drops the mug. 

“...What?”

Across the room he's struggling to sit up, scowling, but the look disappears at the smell of chamomile. “Is—is that for me?”

She smiles wanly at him, setting the mug within his reach and taking a seat on the far edge of the bed. Benji inhales appreciatively, takes the mug by the handle in one (slightly trembling) hand like a proper Brit—and promptly spills half of it on the sheets.

His furious swearing startles a passing nurse outside; Ilsa shushes him with half a mind to laugh at the affronted expression on his face and hastily takes the mug back. Benji tears the covers back with a yelp, balling them up and hurling them at the floor, and her laughter finally bubbles over at the sight.

He looks at her in bemusement as she hunches over, a hand covering her mouth. “That’s what you came in here for, then? To antagonize me?”

She ignores his waspish tone—she’s heard Benji talk to everyone that way, even Ethan. Besides, she’d seen the slight twitch of his lips.

Gathering herself, she passes him the mug again. He’s smarter about it this time, cradling it with both hands. His head hits the pillow after a few ginger sips, and it’s quiet around them for a while, save the noise of the camp outside.

“I misjudged you,” he says at length, softly. Almost regrettably. “Again.”

“Is that the oxygen deprivation talking?”

He doesn’t return her smile. Julia and her team have him in a bed for the next eighteen hours just to be safe. The oxygen tube was removed shortly before she arrived and the color has returned to his face, but he’s very visibly exhausted. Ilsa knows they all are, but she’d followed Luther’s example and flat refused a bed and an exam after they’d brought Ethan in.

They’d taken turns sitting with him the last six hours instead; Benji had gone first and promptly been ratted out to Julia by the both of them, worried by the visible injuries on his neck. He had—remarkably politely—fought Julia and her nurses the whole way into the bed and through a series of exams to determine the severity of the oxygen deprivation.

Which clearly isn’t too severe if he can be this— _ crotchety. _

“I misjudged you,” he repeats a third time, and she’s worried that maybe they took him off the oxygen too soon, until he reaches for her hand.

“I’m sorry, Ilsa.” His gaze drops. “Truly.”

She squeezes his hand lightly. “Apology accepted.” 

“Ilsa.”

She squints at him, unsure of his next words—or why he’s so insistent about this. 

“I trusted you, because Ethan did,” he says, as if it’s obvious. Simple.

And maybe it is for their team. Ilsa has never been able to put that kind of faith in someone before—not even Atlee, and he’d been her handler for six years before London. She thinks of how wonderful it must be—how much  _ easier  _ things would be if she could trust someone as deeply as Ethan’s team trusts one another.

“And then?”

“Well, after Paris—when you tried to kill us—Ethan defended you. Many times, actually. He really trusts you,” Benji says, as if he’s resigned himself to that fact, and Ilsa once again fights the urge to laugh. Jealousy is not an entirely unbecoming look on him; it’s just naturally a part of him, it seems. “And I do too, now, and… and I should have then.”

Somehow Ilsa knows that _then_ means years ago, in Casablanca, in London—that first fucking go-around with Lane that dragged them all together. She swallows around the sudden lump in her throat, folds her fingers over his once more. Maybe it isn’t  _ all  _ that simple for them to trust people; it certainly isn’t for her. Who is she kidding? They’re not the trusting kind, in this line of work. 

So it’s not that easy after all, particularly for Benji Dunn. His newfound faith in her feels different, knowing that, and she's grateful for him admitting it. Funny what almost dying can do to a man.

They sit there in the quiet once more (Ilsa gets the feeling she’s not the only one fighting tears) until a sound at the tent’s entrance startles them both—Benji just barely saves his tea from spilling a second time. It’s Luther, looking ruffled from his meeting with Sloane, and they both wince sympathetically.

“He’s awake.”

Benji is scrambling out of the bed, knocking into Ilsa as he trips over his discarded sheets. His mug hits the floor and she hears Luther’s exasperated sigh over the shattering of cheap ceramic. “Can we see him!”

“Julia says it’s fine for a little while."  Luther is looking at her expectantly where she still sits on the bed. "You coming, kid?" 

They head out into the dying sunlight together. For all the oxygen deprivation Benji might’ve suffered only hours ago, he’s positively bouncing as he leads the way across the camp. Luther follows at a more dignified pace, but from beside him Ilsa can tell how anxious he is.  She’ll have to talk to him at some point as well—apologize, maybe. Will he trust her like Ethan and Benji do? 

Benji turns to face her as they head downhill toward Ethan’s tent. There’s a gentle smile on his face, despite the obvious tension in his eyes at the prospect of seeing their friend awake.

“When we’re in London again—let’s do tea.”

Ilsa smiles agreeably in return, and follows her team inside.

-

Julia and her husband are among a team scheduled to leave for Jammu in the morning. She instructs the nurses last-minute on the care and maintenance of a stubborn Ethan Hunt and goes to pack, relieved to be leaving, if only for a couple days. Ethan and his team will be gone by the time they return—the CIA is flying everyone to London on Sunday night. Solomon Lane’s trial cannot wait, and Ethan needs to be in a proper hospital bed.

It was… good, seeing him again. A little surreal, particularly as she’d stood over him in the medical tent, sewing a cut on his leg closed while simultaneously trying to avoid other (worryingly recent-looking) scars.

(Watching him fall unconscious beneath the oxygen mask, sobbing the way she’d only ever seen him cry twice in her life, had quickly and completely erased any sense of comfort she’d drawn from that surreality.)

She remembers the glassy relief shining in Ethan’s eyes as she assured him that everything was right with them; she knew all the reasons he thought he had to be sorry. She remembers the tears that slipped unbidden down both their faces as they leaned into each other. Remembers that look of love and mild confusion he’d shot them all—the four people who loved him forever and best.

She folds clothes until she’s suddenly aware of a presence behind her, and when she turns Luther is standing at the tent entrance. She tries for a smile, but it falls as she meets his exhausted gaze. “Hey.”

“Heard you were leavin’ tomorrow,” he says by way of a greeting, and this time she can’t help but smile, a tiny thing that she sees reflected in his eyes. Luther was always straightforward, especially in conversation—one of the many reasons she’d quickly befriended him, years ago. 

“Yeah.” She lets out a breath, suddenly avoiding his gaze. “Um. Potential transfer to Uttar Pradesh, the director wants to discuss logistics before we pack things up here…”

“Sounds important,” Luther says, and the unmistakable hint of pride in his voice warms her in spite of the chill outside.

“Yeah.” She sets the last of her things on top of her suitcase and faces him again, arms folded. “What about you?”

“What  _ about  _ me.”

She makes a face at him, stepping closer. “Something on your mind?” 

He smirks in return—Julia knows that  _ he _ knows damn well, Impossible Missions Force agent though he is, that he could never hide anything from her. He and Ethan had tried many unsuccessful times in years past. 

He tells her what he can, which really isn’t much, but enough to make her  _ absolutely fucking relieved  _ that they all came out whole and (relatively) unharmed. She’d examined the rope burns on Benji’s neck, the finger-shaped bruises swelling around his throat. She’d thought she had a pretty good idea of what this man and his—gang? Army? Luther couldn’t give her any names—were capable of. She had no idea. The thought of Luther with a gun to his head nauseates her.

There has to be a reason he’s telling her about it, though.

Her head snaps up as she figures it out, eyes narrowing. “Luther…”

He looks so tired, but she can tell by that infuriating look of resolve on his face that he does in fact blame himself for everything he’s just told her—and everything he hasn’t.  She inhales, prepared to lecture him the way she’s lectured Ethan countless times, but that’s not—that’s not what someone like Luther needs.

Julia throws her arms around him instead, trying to hide how close she is to tears. “Not your fault,” she muffles into his shoulder. “It’s not.” Fuck that—she’s known Luther too long to believe it. 

He hugs her the way he always did, like he’s afraid of hurting her, but as she waits his arms eventually tighten around her.

Funny what almost dying can do to a man. 

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers again. 

“Ethan might not think so,” he says carefully, and the unspoken  _ But I do  _ hangs sourly in what little space is between them.

She smacks his arm, as high as she can reach because they might be old now but he will always be taller than the rest of them. “Then go talk to him.” She pulls back just enough to look him sternly in the eyes. “I don’t know everything that happened, but I do know that he would _never_ blame you for—for—” 

She can’t bring herself to say it.  _ Not dying.  _ She knows Ethan could never even entertain the thought of his best friend dead. Her voice trembles anyway as she says, “Just  _ talk  _ to him, Luther. Please.” 

He studies her a moment longer before cracking a grin—as good as a promise—and she exhales, pulling him into another hug. 

“Don’t be a stranger, kid,” he tells her finally, and she smiles against his shoulder. Of course he taught her well, all those years ago, but now—it seems that time has finally, mercifully passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably gonna need to update tags here soon.
> 
> Hope everyone has (has had and will have) a happy and healthy New Year!


	3. Three

Luther finds Ethan outside later that night, steadying himself against one of the supply trucks and keeping a wary eye out for Julia. His legs are trembling slightly from exertion and he’s holding himself awkwardly in a manner consistent with broken ribs, but the fact that he stubbornly made it outside is reassuring to him somehow. Nothing has ever seemed truly capable of breaking Ethan Hunt.

Just to fuck with him, Luther asks, “Are you supposed to be out here?” with eyebrows raised, even as he fights a laugh. The answer is no, clearly, but like hell will he actually _tell_ Julia on him. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, after all, and frankly it’s the nurses’ fault for letting him slip out so easily—or not easily, he amends as he takes in Ethan’s unsteady movements. Julia might’ve known he’d eventually end up out here “needing some air” (historically his lamest catch-all phrase for his pure hatred of hospitals.)

Knowing her, Luther thinks fondly, she probably did.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Ethan says through gritted teeth as he inches closer, moving to stand in front of him. He looks ridiculous, clutching a patterned fleece around his shoulders and shifting on his absurdly bare feet. Luther finds himself taking pity far quicker than he normally would.

“You know I won’t.” _Stupid kid,_ he thinks with overwhelming affection at the relief in the younger man’s eyes. He couldn’t truly have missed the joke. Ethan relaxes as much as the pain allows, the shadow of a smile crossing his face, and Luther knows he hasn’t.

“Good,” he breathes, and closes his eyes.

They stand in comfortable silence for a little while before Luther remembers (one half of) the reason he initially came to find his friend: Erika Sloane has asked him to pass on a message.

“Sloane’s meeting us at Langley after Lane’s trial,” he says at length, bitterly recalling their earlier meeting. There hadn’t been much in the way of sympathy, not for Ethan or their team or Hunley. Not that he’d expected any. “She wants to discuss—” 

“I don’t want to see her,” Ethan says without opening his eyes, and yeah, Luther’s slightly amused with the kid—God, it’s been twenty years and he still thinks of him that way. 

“ _You_ don’t have to,” he says, gently teasing, and that makes him look up.

“I—”

“You’re staying out here until Julia clears you for travel. Sloane agreed to postpone the mission debriefing until you were home. You, uh… you’ll miss Hunley’s funeral,” he adds gently at the dull, resigned look in Ethan’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Ethan nods once, jaw clenched so tightly Luther’s amazed he doesn’t dislocate it. “Fine.” He turns away, tugging at his fleece and tucking his nose down into it, muffling his next words. “I—I couldn’t.”

He drops a heavy hand on what he hopes is his good shoulder. “Hey man, I’m sorry. You know he’d understand.”

This is the wrong thing to say, apparently. Ethan levels him with an incredulous look, one that’s a little hurt around the edges. “He didn’t understand anything we did,” he counters with a shake of his head. “Not a thing—just that I was perfectly content to put you before the mission, and _look what happened._ ” He slams a shaking hand down on the hood of the truck. “Look what happened!”

“Ethan,” Luther begins sharply, masking the break in his own voice, but before he can correct him Ethan is suddenly moving, wrapping his arms as far as he can around Luther’s broad shoulders, hugging him tightly—and standing on his toes, Luther notes with slight glee. He has to stoop slightly to return the embrace, not bothering to hide his smirk as he does.

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Ethan whispers knowingly in his ear, and he kindly doesn’t react as his friend eventually begins to shake with something heavier than laughter. 

His words have awoken the ever-present guilt inside him despite the talk he’s just had with Julia, and he hears her words in his head as Ethan pulls away, eyes red and hands still braced heavily on his shoulders.

_Go talk to him._

“Luther—thank you,” Ethan says, and he’s not smiling, but there’s something very soft and sincere in his tired face that makes Luther understand. It’s been one hell of a long week, and it isn't over yet.

“For what?”

He wonders if it’s just a trick of the light, the single tear that drips down the younger man’s cheek. “We’d be out here all night if I explained. Just… for everything. Thank you for everything.” He rubs at his eyes with the corner of his fleece, sniffing discreetly. “Can you, uh—help me inside. Please.”

And Luther smiles, painfully aware that he hasn’t yet fulfilled his promise to Julia, but for now it’ll keep as he helps Ethan back to his tent. They’ve just saved the world. As far as he’s concerned, they have all the time left in it.

* * *

Ilsa wanders down the path toward Ethan’s tent in the dark, an empty mug in her hands and Luther’s coat over her arm.

She can hear her team’s laughter from a distance and the sound warms her as much as the tea she’d finished on her way over here had. A few hours earlier she had been shown a spare cot in one of the women’s tents and given time to sleep—hopeless. She’d snuck into the empty men’s tent hoping to find someone and had ended up asleep with Ethan’s leather jacket beneath her head, once the tears had slowed some, and then she’d cried all over again upon waking up to the smell of cinnamon tea, curled beneath Luther’s heavy coat.

It’s blistering cold outside and Ilsa doesn’t hesitate as she enters the tent. Ethan is sitting up in bed, Benji’s tablet in his lap; Luther and Benji are on either side of him, smirking down at whatever’s on screen, but when they see her, they all smile.

She sets the empty mug down and hands Luther his coat, unable to stop the heat rising in her face, but the older man merely takes it with a nod. Benji beams expectantly at her and Ilsa can’t stop the quirk of her lips.

“Thank you for the tea,” she says primly, and only then does she stop to wonder how he knew she liked cinnamon tea. “You…” 

But he’s not even looking at her anymore, and when she glances down at their screen she sees that William Brandt is watching her carefully, eyes narrowed. He looks perpetually exhausted, from the deep lines on his face to the seemingly permanent slump of his shoulders as he leans forward—the last two years have clearly not been kind to him. “Ilsa.”

“Agent Brandt,” she replies coolly, very aware of everyone’s eyes on her. “It’s… good to see you again.”

Ethan coughs, suspiciously forced for someone with multiple broken ribs, and she would elbow him hard if it wouldn’t hurt him so much. Brandt studies her a moment longer before nodding once. Ilsa returns it, bemused, and that’s that; she studies the ugly silver scar that stretches across his right cheek as he and the others finish their conversation. 

“Where is he now?” she asks, as Benji eventually closes the tablet and tucks it away.

“Special Activities. Walker was on his team before Paris,” Ethan says, a little dully. “He’s finishing up a mission in Prague, but he’ll meet us in London for Lane’s trial.”

Ilsa shifts onto the bed beside him, taking in his exhausted appearance. “And what happened to his…?”

“Got shot in… Argentina, I think,” Ethan replies, scooting closer to Benji to allow her room. “Or Paraguay. I don’t remember which.”

“Paraguay,” Luther supplies, looking a little worried, and Ilsa privately feels the same—it doesn’t seem like Ethan to forget those kinds of things, particularly about his team. He’s visibly brightened from their video call with Brandt but flagging still, leaning heavily against Benji’s outstretched arm. “You ought to get some rest now, Ethan.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” she whispers to Benji as the other two begin arguing.

He gestures vaguely with his free hand as if to say _I_ am _in bed,_ and Ilsa lets that go. She doesn’t particularly want to go back to the women’s tent to sleep, even though the pressure behind her eyes is starting to become acutely painful. She has never functioned well without sleeping, and the adrenaline has finally worn off, leaving her anxious and miserable and _exhausted._

“Have you been crying?” Benji asks, sounding concerned, but she appreciates that he keeps his voice low.

Ilsa shakes her head and gives him a light smile, nothing more. “How did you know about the tea?”

Benji looks unhappy with her answer, but tips his head thoughtfully to the side. “What d’you mean?”

“Cinnamon. It’s my favorite,” she says, a little shyly. Over Benji’s shoulder, Ethan has stopped bickering with Luther and is watching her intently. 

His eyes light up, and she is suddenly overwhelmingly grateful to have a friend in Benji Dunn. “Is it! Mum always made it when I hurt myself…” He trails off, endearingly awkward, and smiles after a beat. “I’m glad you liked it.” 

“Are you all staying here tonight?” Ethan breaks in gently, and Ilsa swallows as his gaze finds hers amid the others’ affirming noises.

_Misery loves company,_ she thinks, glancing around and seeing her exhaustion reflected in all their faces. She doesn’t want to sleep alone, not tonight. This is her team now. She can trust them. She _wants_ to stay.

“We’re not all fitting in this bed,” she says archly.

But they make it work. Benji and Ethan are a tangle of limbs and she has to laugh at the way they shuffle around and snap at one another; they’ve clearly had to do this before, and neither of them enjoy it. Ethan looks rather put-upon as Benji rests his chin above his head, enduring his and Luther’s teasing jabs with a wan smile before he’s motioning up to her. “There’s room. You don’t have to be alone tonight, Ilsa, not if you don’t want to.”

She eases down on her uninjured side beside him, mindful of a space for Luther as she moves as close as she dares, their knees touching. One hand slips from under his fleece to touch hers. “You okay?”

The audacity of a man beaten half to death in his attempt to save the world, asking her if she’s all right. She touches his forearm, reaches up and brushes his hair off his forehead like she had earlier. Despite everything, there is no haunted look in his eyes, something she both admires and feels slightly put off by. 

“I’m fine.”

Luther settles behind her and tells them all to shut up—he’s asleep and snoring within moments, a sound so terrible that they all silently agree to refer him to a specialist once they return home. Ethan is still staring at her, eyes soft and lips slightly parted, hand on hers, and she’s staring right back, all forgotten. It’s good, being so close to him. 

“No _canoodling,_ do you hear me,” Benji hisses without opening his eyes, and she finally falls asleep with the sound of Ethan’s rasping laughter in her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter, tags will be updated before then. 
> 
> as always, kudos/comments appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this updates faster than my other stories
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated, as always.


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